Deliquescence
by lokiyan
Summary: Sansa Stark, now Lady of House Stark, gives Jaime Lannister a second chance in Winterfell due to a kindness done for her by his brother.
1. Prologue

Deliquescence

Prologue

He never thought he would see this barren wasteland of a kingdom again. The great stone walls rose grim above a foundation of frozen ground and served as home to the so-called Kings of Winter in ages past. The shackles were cold against his wrist and ankles and snowflakes stuck to his long blond locks. The dungeons in King's Landing, unfortunately, did not include the services of a proper barber.

Years ago, he had ridden through these walls at the head of a royal march. His sister and children sat quietly and safely in a carriage behind him, followed by the rotund king on a mount that barely supported his weight. Jaime's own armor glistened in the northern sun and when he took off his helm, the whistle of the winds in his ear sent chills down his spine. He wanted to turn around and gallop as far from Winterfell as he could that day. It was a strange feeling, the way the wind trapped him in its own design in the midst of the great expanse of the North.

Yet now, in chains, Winterfell was his last option before the Queen's justice. Her dragons were not as merciful or swift as Ser Ilyn's blade. In the darkness of the dungeons in King's Landing, he could still hear the screams of the red cloaks set ablaze and mutilitated at the Battle for Harrenhal, the outcome of which forced the remaining lords to bend their knees to the return of the old bloodline.

And of his own bloodline, the proud lions of Lannister, the former wardens of the West, he was the sole survivor.

The cart creaked to a stop before yet another indistinguishable stone wall, Jaime noted, and his escort unlocked the door. He was uninterested in all the goings-on around him - the children who had gathered to see the fallen knight, the adults for whom a taste of hatred for Southerners still lingered on their tongues - and remained in his private jail cell of the past moon, his back resting against the wooden bars that he could once easily break open.

"Out with ya, Kingslayer." He heard the coarse voice of the guard and felt his hands pull at the bare threads that covered his body, but paid him no mind. "I said out-"

"Enough." A song of a voice cut through the loud winds and the rough hands on his forearms loosened their grips. "I will have the keys, please."

She crawled into the mobile cell with him, the smell of urine and sweat soaking through the knees of her blue dress. From the periphery of his vision, he could see strands of red hair, bright as the red of his house against the midday sun, and a coal black key in lily white hands. The locks gave way with a 'click' and she was gone with a quick order to a steward. "Escort him to the stables and show him his duties. Gently, if you please."

"My Lady, I fear for your safety-"

"Your concern warms my heart, ser, but I am a Stark in Winterfell and am in possession of all my limbs." With that, the woman who had granted Jaime Lannister his life and freedom returned to her castle without a backward glance.

Lady Sansa of House Stark had seventeen years now, and commanded the lords of the north with her nimble, seamstress hands. He couldn't help but notice just how much her hair reminded him of her mother, one of few women in the world who had ever gotten the best of him. Even as a girl, she always had a nice figure. For the first time in a long time, Jaime drank in the shape of a woman against the falling snow as though it were a glass of fine-

"Hurry it along, Kingslayer." He fell forward from the sharp shove of his captor, but with a grace that only came from members of affluence, he rose and brushed the dirt from the cotton of his sleeves.

Northerners never did have a sense of romance.


	2. Chapter 1

A/N: Thanks for the reviews, love. Really appreciate it.

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><p>Chapter 1<p>

He had fallen asleep quickly, the fresh haystack the closest thing he had to a bed since his capture. So deep was he in his slumber that he failed to wake to the presence of another and instead was surprised by a cold splash of water that drenched him like a cave rat. Sputtering and shaking from the cold air kissing his newly soaked flesh, Jaime shook his head to drive away the hazy cloud of renewed consciousness. A soft twinkle of a laugh reached his ears.

"You're filthy." There was no laughter in her Tully blue eyes nor in the firm set of her mouth. He shielded his eyes from the brightness of the candle to find a little girl with no more than three or four years behind her black cloak. "Wash yourself by the water lever in the stables and change into some fresh clothes. Lyra?" The black haired child stepped forward with a smile and a set of fresh, plain clothes between her small hands.

"I am learning to stitch!" The little thing was thin, but puffed up her chest with pride like a boy at his first hunt. His father taught him to look down his straight Lannister nose at such attitudes from a girl, but Jaime found her oddly charming.

He accepted the gift graciously, the feel of smooth linen sang beneath his fingertips. "Thank you. I look forward to seeing your work." He rested the pile on his knee and balanced it with his stump of a hand on top of it so that his hand may reach out to touch the girl's soft cheek. Sansa pulled her back by the shoulders until the girl collided into her dress.

"Lyra, it is well past your time for sleep. Back to your chambers."

"But you promised me a story!"

The Stark girl knelt and smiled a smile as warm as sunshine, one he had seen only during his last visit to Winterfell, but never at the capital. "Find Septa Poma and have your story with her tonight. Tomorrow, I will sing you to sleep."

"Oh, but what will you sing?"

"It will be a surprise." She kissed the child tenderly on the forehead. "Now go. Have sweet dreams filled with doves and sugarplums." The girl kissed her on the cheek and ran, her footsteps making sweet patters on the stone floors. Sansa watched until she disappeared into the darkness.

"Won't you sing me a song as well, Lady Stark?" He chuckled to himself at the title.

"And what, may I ask, is so humorous?" She truly did favor her mother, her eyes warm as sweet syrup when she beholds a child, and sharp as knives at the sight of a Lannister.

"_Lady _Stark. Last I saw you, you were a child still." Even now, weakened though he was, he could snap her slender wrists at the bone.

"Yes, I was a child once. A child who dreamed of gallant knights and princes who would take me far away from here. To a place with feasts and balls and jousts, flowered crowns for beautiful girls." She turned her gaze to him, never once avoiding his eyes. "I have been to that place, Ser Jaime. I have attended dances and tourneys enough to last my whole life and that child is gone. The prince I dreamt of forced me to look upon my father's head skewered on the city gates and commanded his knights, the noble brotherhood of the Kingsguard, to strip me naked before the court and beat me bloody. Your beloved Joffrey killed the child you last saw and called it mercy."

It was he, who thought he was past all shame, who looked a way with a tense jaw. He wish he could defend Joffrey - claim that the power of the Iron Throne had corrupted him, that the spirit of the Mad King had overtaken him - but he always knew that his firstborn had inherited the worst traits of his house. Cersei told him that the Stark girl was disciplined for her insolence, but he knew what it was to stand in that throne room without a single ally. "Why am I here, Lady Stark?"

She sighed, her brows knit at a painful memory. "Your brother had an enduring fondness for you and Lord Tyrion did me many kindnesses during my time at King's Landing. As much as he could for a hostage to a barbaric king. Callous as he may be with his words, his tender heart would not have wanted to see you rot in that prison. I am bound by duty to honor his memory."

"Family. Duty. Honor."

"Family. Duty. Honor," she repeated. Tully words. "He truly did love you, your brother."

"And did you love him, sister?" He remembered the distaste he had for the marriage between his brother and a child. "Did you find it in that cold Stark heart of yours to love the Imp?"

A small smile quirked at the corner of her lips. Softly, she replied, "I don't love anyone who is not of my blood." From a small bag, she drew a small loaf of bread with ham wrapped in wax paper. "You were not in the mess hall tonight. We dine at sundown."

He took the food from her, noticing for the first time that his stomach was positively berating him. His teeth tore into the stale bread. "Do you usually let prisoners dine with you?" His question was met with silence. When he looked up, she was gone.


	3. Chapter 2

A/N: Again, the support is lovely. Thank you guys so much!

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><p>Chapter 2<p>

"Here ar' ya duties, boy." The list was long and the days would be tiring, but the previous evening with Lady Stark had brought back old memories of his brother. _Death is so final, while life is full of possibilities_. A prisoner - a slave - he may be, but at the very least he was a slave with a pulse. As the kennel master droned on, Jaime surveyed the ruins that were once Winterfell, home of the descendants of Brandon the Builder. They certainly could use him now. Of the stone walls that survived the fires and pillaging, few were without fundamental damage to the very foundations that made it sturdy in the storm. One didn't have to actually be a builder to note that the deep, long fingers of cracks bode poorly for the workers.

The Stark girl had escaped the grasps of his family and Littlefinger just to be the Lady of a large pile of rubble.

"Are you listenin' to me, boy? Get'a work b'fore I squash ya like a fly!" The man couldn't have been more than fifteen years his senior, yet he had the hardened demeanor of a battle-hardened warrior. Jaime had seen countless men like him on the field, blinded by honor and loyalty, rushing eagerly to their graves. Yes, he suppose a man like him could call Jaime, with his fair hair and bright eyes 'boy' without a thought. He bent to pick up the brush awkwardly with his left hand. Certainly, he had basic knowledge in caring for horses. He was quite fond of the beasts in his youth and spent his days harassing the stable boys. Since he left behind his days as a squire and progressed into knighthood, however, these duties always fell to someone else. He may be adapting to swinging his sword brashly with his left arm, but delicate tasks such as brushing down a horse's coat still required adjustments.

His stump was bare for the world to see as he leaned it against the chestnut mare to keep her still. She was a scraggly little thing with patches of hair missing at her rear thigh. Had this horse been presented to his lord father at Casterly Rock, not only would she have been made into stew but the gifter would be punished as well for dishonoring the Lannister house with such a sight. Even as the long winter began to draw back from the coming tides of summer, however, the people of the north remember the darkness and the cold. Those who lost everything once holds even the littlest of nothing dear.

They weren't entirely without humor though, at least not at the expense of their walking joke. Every time he slipped from his stump or miscalculated the damned animal's movements, there were snickers and whispers in the shadows. The only comfort he took was that his father wasn't around to bear witness to the ridicule. Surely, he would have been punished for his shortcomings.

He cursed as he struggled to maneuver the water pump while holding onto the wooden stein. At least with the golden hand, useless as it was, he could have rested something on the palm of the damned thing. Finally, he set the stein on the floor, carefully aiming the spout at the small opening.

He looked up to find Lady Stark turn away from a window in her tower. The flush of embarrassment that had rested beneath his cheek blossomed into his chest. He swallowed his curses with his water and returned to work.

Surprisingly, evening meals were a joyous affair. The food was plain at best, the watery stew and bland meat pies filled bellies and was plentiful to replenish the day's work. The ale, however, was exceptional, warming the frozen finger tips and rushing blood through frozen veins. Dorne may have its sweet wine, suitable for his late sister and brother, but any weathered knight would choose a good, rich beer that brought the deep, thunderous laughter from deep within the core of men.

Even at his lonely end of the table, he couldn't help the smirk at the dirty jokes and ensuing laughter.

The rest of the men generally avoided him. Of course, no one was quite so stupid as to put a sword in his hand (although, what good would that do against _dragons_) and the shackles around his ankles made for loud and clumsy movements. Most of them, however, were still brought up with the tale of the Kingslayer. None of them trusted him enough to turn their backs to him.

It was a fortnight before anyone spoke to him.

"And how many women have you had, boy?" It was Aric, the man who had given him his chores during his second day in Winterfell. "A pretty face like yours, you prob'ly had all the bitches pantin' after ya." Years of being close to animals have made it impossible for Aric to hold a conversation without bringing up some sort of beast, big or small.

Never in his life had any man spoken to the former heir to Casterly Rock in such a manner. Not even his own brother. A second man chimed in, sliding closer to him on one of the long benches that lined the mess hall. "C'mon, Lannister. You've got to have plenty of stories. You got to have all the women without ever having to worry about taking a wife. All you've got to say was you was servin' the king."

He thought of Cersei just then, the first time he had in a long time. Her long blonde hair, beautiful green eyes, the way her lips curled in displeasure when he cursed during their lovemaking. And then he thought of the blood, the slaughtered bastard babe, the moment he wondered how he had ever loved her. "No one worth mentioning."

A filthy hand clasped his shoulder. They were all filthy. "Ah, to have so many that you can't even remember them all. There was this one girl I had on my nineteenth nameday..."

The tale involved a girl, black of hair, who had been so frightened by the man's cock that she fled the room, naked as the day she was born. The boy, Walter, was bawdy and indecent in his telling and Jaime found himself listening to the strange sound of his own chuckle. Walt reminded him of a squire in King's Landing, who once laughed so hard at his own jest that he fell into a mount of fresh horse shit. Cersei exiled him for two weeks until the stench wore off. At the recollection, Jaime managed a laugh. The sudden burst of air from his lungs that he hadn't experienced since just before his confession to his brother hurt his chest in surprise, but he welcomed the ache.

It was in the hall of winter that the fires from the Mad King's reign ceased its raging in his heart.


	4. Chapter 3

A/N: I am so sorry for the long wait. Life got a little hectic for me this past month. Hope you guys are still interested! *fingers crossed*

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

The raven came from the Wall on a cloudless day, black streaking across the blue sky. Around him, he heard the mutters. _Dark wings, dark words._

Lady Stark left the ruins with a black charger and a green cape, her hair a blaze of fire as she rode out of the gates. She took a small group of men and a maid with her and two months passed without a Stark in Winterfell. The reconstruction of the stable and armory were near completion and the builders had begun work on the bed chambers that were on the collapsed side of the Great Keep. Until now, Jaime and a handful of other men slept under the roofs they finished building that day - in stables, parts of the unfinished library, anywhere but the crypts - but whenever winter decided to show its face again, they must be ready. Even without the Starks around, Winterfell was alive with their words: Winter is coming.

Two moons passed before his eyes caught sight of her again. She had returned with another Stark, one who all thought had been lost forever. The youngest, the little wilding. The little lordling returned to his inheritance much the way Jaime was brought there himself, restrained with wild hair and filthy clothes. Where Jaime had learned that fighting accomplished nothing, the boy fought with everything he had.

Since Queen Danaerys ascended to the throne and he was locked in a pit of darkness, news from the North occasionally trickled down Kingsroad, through the tunnel of whispers in King's Landing, and down to his pitiful cell. Everyone knew of the young wolf's demise and how the gracious and beautiful Lady Sansa won the new Queen's favor. She had met her younger sister, the horse-faced one that began with an A, across the narrow sea and pledged their allegiance, swearing their father's mercy in speaking out against King Robert's assassination attempts and their aunt's tragic romance with the Queen's eldest brother. Despite all the tales, no one ever spoke of Ned Stark's living sons. Most assumed that although they had survived the Boltons, Winter claimed them as it had many Starks before.

Yet here was one, as different from his sister as could be, pulling at the ropes that bound his hands and feet and grinding down on his teeth. Even after all he must have gone through, the boy was so young, his voice still high and childlike as he yelled at his sister, whose gaze remained forward with steely determination. He could see the tension in her brow, though, the same way Cersei used to hold back her tears when they were children at Casterly Rock.

A parade for the returning heir of the Great House of Stark became a prisoner's march. The cheers faded to silence and one by one, the men returned to their work until only Jaime was left at the entrance of the stable. Aric and his brothers unhooked the cart and led the boy, kicking and screaming, toward the Great Keep. With his good hand, Jaime took hold of her horse's rein and led it to a nearby trunk to ease her dismounting after the long journey. He knew enough of his place to keep his head bowed even at the faint sounds of hitched breathing and rough exhales. From the corner of his eyes, he spied her hands, small and white as she gripped her saddle.

He allowed the moment to pass and watched for the tremble to fade before offering his hand to her and gently gripped her fingers thin and cold as ice. "Lady Stark," he began quietly.

"Sansa," she breathed. "Lady Sansa. My brother has returned at long last. Winterfell is his." She swung her leg over and slid gracefully onto the proffered platform. As gallant as he was raised to be, he let her back fall gently against his right arm even as he kept his hold on her hand. "Thank you." Patches of red spotted her pale complexion, her rim of her eyes matched the red of her hair. For a moment, she was once again the eleven year old girl he had once seen from afar.

She quickly wiped her eyes again before remembering herself again. "I'm sure you have plenty to do. I will leave you to it, then." She grabbed her skirts and disappeared as she so oft did around him.

He was still until he was roused by Walt, who had come to help unsaddle the small herd. "The boy's possessed by the cold. Gods be good, Lady Stark can get some sense in that head of his. Poor girl."

Winter is coming. Even as Spring approached, those words rang true to Sansa Stark. She closed the heavy wooden door to her chambers with a trembling hand and heaved a sigh. Nothing came easily to her after that first time she left the North and this should have been expected, but when she had received the raven from her Jon at the wall, she thought things could be easier now. She could perhaps rest her head, just for a moment...

She stood by the window and watched Rickon scream and scratch at her men, who all tried their best not to harm their little lord. Of course there is plenty to be done to groom him to be the lord their father was, and if even it killed her, she would succeed. She would make him the man he was always meant to be, the type of man their father and Robb were, one to whom these stalwart, hardened men of the North would bend their knee. As familiar as she was with these men from the time she had spent with them in the past few moons and as well as she could play the game she learned from Littlefinger, Sansa worried as she always did. She worried for their safety, their stability, the next coming Winter... For a girl of eighteen, she worried about far too many things.

Lessons were not the difficult part. She had learned enough from Septa Mordane to teach her own litter when the time came, but she could never teach a man to _want _to rule. Rickon had been so young when it all went to ruins. This was no home he ever knew and she was no sister. When she first arrived at the Wall to return him to his rightful throne, her brother Jon, with whom she had reconciled on a battlefield on the side of their new queen, had to restrain her baby brother from attacking her. Her heart had nearly pounded out of its chest when he stared savagely at her with those familiar eyes. He wore the same sharp eyes as their father when he had on what Bran used to call the face of the Lord of Winterfell.

Yes, there was so much to do, and although she vowed to protect these lands and loathed to distract her family from pursuing their own passions, she knew they would want to behold Rickon with their own eyes. Quickly, she set to the task of writing two letters, one for the South and one for the East.

There was much to do indeed.


End file.
